


A Rose by Any Other Name

by Flora_Obsidian



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Kinda, for lack of any other knowledge, for these poor old sad men, fourteen?, idk which incarnation that one is, like a truckload of angst and feels, there is an implied, we'll call him fourteen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flora_Obsidian/pseuds/Flora_Obsidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sat themselves in front of the large painting, the four of them on a small bench with cups of tea on saucers in their hands- really, how else were they going to wrap up a world-threatening and emotionally draining crisis? Tea, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rose by Any Other Name

They sat themselves in front of the large painting, the four of them on a small bench with cups of tea on saucers in their hands- really, how else are they going to wrap up a world-threatening and emotionally draining crisis? Tea, of _course._ How else?

"I don't suppose we'll ever know if we actually succeeded," said the oldest in appearance - ironically enough, he was the youngest of the three incarnations, though he carried himself with a weariness that suited his face. "But at worst, we failed doing the right thing, as opposed to succeeding in doing the wrong."

Clara paused, cup partway to her lips. She slowly put it back on the porcelain plate with a  _clink_ and shot him a look. "Life and soul, you are!"

In addition to the old men and the girl and the relic: three boxes lined up along one wall, old enough to theoretically be a part of the museum. They were old police boxes, a common sight in the 1960s; they only varied in color in size, and even then, only slightly. One was a more vibrant blue and boxier; one was slimmer, a darker hue; the third most closely resembled the second but for its battered appearance, covered in dust and scorch marks.

The other two incarnations of the Doctor stood in front of the painting, looking at the smoggy orange skies with a strange mixture of hope and dulled resignation that seemed far too at home on their faces.

"But what did you  _mean_?" the Doctor demanded all of a sudden, turning abruptly and staring at his past counterpart, words coming out as though they had been weighing on his mind for quite some time. "You said- you said she-  _she_ showed you what you needed to see, and- and you said-"

"Bad Wolf," the eleventh finished. A far cry from his past self's manic energy, the man practically tripping over himself in his haste to get his words out (though this was typically the eleventh's normal state of being), the younger - yet really, he was the most painfully old out of all of them - was quiet and subdued. They both looked at the Doctor who had fought in that awful,  _awful_ war. "You said Bad Wolf, and since I really don't remember any of this from your points of view, what exactly did you mean when you said-  _that_."

His calm facade shattered on the last word, his voice breaking, an old sorrow in his eyes. Clara hesitantly put her hand over his.

The youngest Doctor shrugged. "The Moment, his has a conscience," he told them, sounding entirely unconcerned about it. They  _did_ remember that bit, sort of, but they failed to see what the information had to do with their question. "It's alive, it's sentient. That's why they never used it, because who would dare to wield such a powerful weapon when it could stand and pass judgment on you?"

The eleventh smiled in a self-deprecating manner. The tenth made an impatient gesture with his hand.

"The interface showed up before I came to find you, it said-  _she_ said that she had chosen that face for me specifically from my-  _our_ future. Called herself... Rosa? Rose-something-or-other, then stopped. Bad Wolf she said, and her eyes were golden."

The eleventh eyed the tenth with no small amount of concern, the younger man clutching the small handle of the teacup so tightly he was starting to worry it might shatter. But the tenth just spoke, very very softly, more to himself than anyone else. "Blonde hair," he murmured. "That's what she looked like? Blonde hair, eyes kind of a... hazel. They were hazel, weren't they?"

The pain in his voice and the silent  _I've forgotten_ went unmentioned.

"Hazel," the eleventh agreed softly. "Smelled like mint."

"Peppermint," the tenth echoed, and the tension seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped. A crooked smile passed over his face. "Oh, she...  _brilliant_."

"Saved us more times than we can count," the eleventh nodded. "First time we met, eh? And there were Nestenes, I think."

"Oh, I remember the Nestenes!" The tenth actually perked up at that, and he looked down the bench to his younger self. "You've got that to look forward to, then! Great adventure, that one- coming up soon, I think?"

"Quite soon, mmm."

The Doctor blinked and looked between the two. "Was she important?" he finally asked.

The tenth's expression went flat. "She still is!"

The eleventh made a shushing noise in a way he hoped was soothing, a reassuring hand on the tenth's shoulder. "Trust us," he told the Doctor. "From self to self. You make sure you take her with you, all right? You..."

Vague memories of wind, and a bleak, desolate beach on the outskirts of Norway.

"You won't regret it. She'll  _save_ you."

"But if I don't remember this-"

"Doesn't matter," the tenth cut in, but slightly quieter, the bite gone from his voice, his thoughts running much along the same line as the eleventh's. "You take her with you."

They bid their farewells, the youngest to regenerate and the tenth shortly to follow. The eleventh found himself alone with Clara; the dear girl, she'd been so quiet he'd almost forgotten she was there. Clara hugged her Doctor, kissed him on the cheek, and retreated for the single blue box left on the wall to let him stay with his painting for a little while longer.

Then came the curator. Or perhaps it was The Curator, he wasn't  _quite_ sure, but mysteries were always the best kind of story.

"' _Gallifrey Falls No More'_ ," said the man wearing an old face in a tone that booked no room for argument. The eleventh felt nearly giddy with excitement. Dreams were not enough to sustain a man – perhaps,  _perhaps_... "And, let me tell you something – or perhaps you should tell me something!" His eyes sparkled. The eleventh felt a smile tugging at his lips. "Entirely hypothetical, but then again, most things are. I'm just a humble curator, I wouldn't know much, but I happened to overhear you talking... If Gallifrey – if, if, if  _if_ Gallifrey is still out there... well, it might just serve to reason that other things are out there too! Food for thought, I've found it does wonders."

And then the Doctor remembered a small box, still sitting by itself in a shed in the desert sands of home, and he laughed.

* * *

 

_It hurt to think about-_

_About-_

_It hurt-_

_Maybe that girl could come with him. She got him to laugh, it had been a while since he had laughed. Felt almost like something was closing back up in his chests, over the scarred remains of his hearts. But- no, no, and it hurt more than he thought it would after everything._

**Trust us.**

_What-?_

**From self to self. You make sure you take her with you.**

**She'll** _**save** _ **you.**

"Did I mention that it also travels in time?"


End file.
